


Too Cold to Not Be Freezing

by Roth1900



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Doctor Watson, Drabble, Friendship, Hypothermia, M/M, Patient Sherlock, Romance, Sweet, feelings realized, lost in thought, something more than friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 19:37:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/653708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roth1900/pseuds/Roth1900
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Usually when Sherlock gets lost in his thoughts there is not a potential for death. Good thing Dr. John is there to save his arse...  his naked arse to be precise. :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Cold to Not Be Freezing

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the insanely cold January we are having here in the Mid-Western US. Brr! Also, I vaguely remember learning about hypothermia from "Voyage of the Mimi" (can I get a hell-yes if you remember that education aid from a million years ago?), and did next to no research beyond that. So yeah, probably not the most accurate portrayal imaginable.

John awoke in his bed, shivering. The cold seemed to be crawling under the door seeking John out for his warmth. He pulled his feet in tighter, trying to make the warm ball of himself more compact against the intruding cold. It was hopeless. He pulled the duvet around his shoulders, padded half frozen feet across the chilled floor and thankfully found a thick pair of matching wool socks in the top drawer of his bureau. He pulled them on, cursing under his breath and half tipping over a time two in the process. The doorknob was cold under his fingers, the stairs creaked wearily from tensing under the cold of the air. Even though the hall that led downstairs was much cooler than the room he had just left, he knew he had to find the source before the entire flat was frozen over.

He landed half asleep, half frozen feet heavily on the bottom landing and looked into the living room. The window was open. No, all the windows were open. He hurried to them, quickly pulling the glass panes down, fingers burning under the cold of the frame. 

Sherlock did not notice John, or at least didn’t care to turn if he did notice him. He had his violin dangling at his side, the bow tucked against the instrument in one hand. 

“Sherlock, what the bloody hell are you doing? You’ll freeze to death down here!”

John pushed him out of the way and shut the final window with a resounding slam. He turned to face Sherlock. His lips were nearly blue, a few stray snowflakes had blown in and landed in his hair and on his eyelashes. He looked like a statue, frozen and unfeeling toward the world around him. John snapped his fingers in his face a few times, hoping to rouse him.

Sherlock did not so much as blink. “Sherlock. Sherlock?” John touched a hand to his shoulder and nudged him gently. Nothing. John squared himself up the much taller man and set his jaw resolutely. He flicked his hand a few times, trying to get the blood to flow a little more quickly. He lifted his hand and sharply slapped Sherlock across his cheek, the thought of Irene Adler’s words echoing in his mind. 

Finally, with a gasp, the tall detective became aware of his surroundings. His teeth chattered a few clicks and a proper shiver rolled up the length of his body. John was irate, “What were you doing down here? Committing the worlds slowest suicide by way of freezing?”

The voice that came from him was weak, sleepy, “I... I was thinking.”

Wonderment and horror shot across John’s face. “What could you have possibly been thinking about that you wouldn’t notice frostbite?”

Sherlock shivered again and wrapped his arms across himself, “I don’t have frostbite.”

The point was lost on him, “No, but you might as well have. If I hadn’t come down here, God knows how long you would have just stood there.” The shivering was coming on stronger, Sherlock’s composure fighting a losing battle against the cold. John flung his duvet around the quaking shoulders of his best friend. “Come on, sit down. I’ll get a fire going.”

It was morning twilight outside. Purples and blacks were thrown about the flat causing the already poorly lit room to be nearly impossible to see. John fumbled with getting the chilly somewhat snow soaked logs to catch. Once the fledgling fire was at least somewhat glowing on its own, John left it to see to starting a kettle for the two friends to share. 

“What were you thinking about?”

Sherlock still seemed distracted, or maybe confused. “Hm? Oh... nothing. “

“Nothing, he says,” John muttered to himself. He tried to plug the electric kettle in a few times before finding purchase, his hands still too cold to be steady. He furiously clapped them together, trying to rub them back to life. He blew warm, soft air into them and tried again. 

The tiny fire was steadily growing in the hearth, now casting amber and gold light, warming the look of the room quicker than the air in the room. Sherlock had his feet drawn under him. His arms were crossed over his knees, and his hands were idly rubbing at his biceps. His rounded chin was pressed against his bony sternum which John just realized was totally exposed under his thin blue dressing gown. “Are you wearing anything?”

Sherlock quirked his eyes toward his friend. “Just this.” 

“Dear god,” images and flashes of text from long ago read medical books and military issued pamphlets popped into his brain, hypothermia, frostbite, and chilblains all came to mind in an instant. “How long were you standing there? Are you hurting anywhere? Any numbness or tingling?” 

John immediately forgot about his own cold hands and grasped Sherlock’s. They were ice. 

His voice was raspy and weak, “I... no. I was only over there for a few minutes.” 

The military doctor in John needed better answers, quicker. “How long exactly.”

“Since you went to bed, I suppose.” 

John checked his watch. “That was four hours ago, Sherlock.”

He blinked a few times, and shivered again harder than before, the realization of the cold and exposure flooding him. “I m-must have l-lost track of t-t-time.”

John’s brow furrowed. “Yes, thinking about nothing, I remember,” he tried to keep the ironic tone out of his voice, knowing how serious the situation could really be. He lifted the man up on two stumbling feet and steadied the much taller, much more fragile man before disrobing him as quickly as he could. He shed the cover off of him, took the chilly, damp robe off in a whirl and replaced the duvet in a flash. The last thing he needed was to be naked in a cold flat after hours of exposure to single digit temperature. He started pushing him down to the floor when Sherlock swayed on his feet, his face paler than normal. “Stop. Stop, I’m dizzy.” 

“I need you to get closer to the fire.” 

“Just give me a minute!” He snapped back icily.

“Sherlock,” John was staying as calm as he could, but the symptoms were adding up quickly. Dizzy, pale, confused, irritable, and unstable on his feet after exposure to cold. Hypothermia. Great. “I am going to help you, Sherlock. You are going to be fine. I promise, but first I need you to lay down closer to the fire.”

Sherlock slowly lowered himself to the floor uneasily. John kept his hands under his arms for support, gently settling the man down next to the fire gate. The light and heat were washing over the half frozen man. “I’m getting you more covers. You stay right here.” 

_Sherlock Holmes, the only man to catch his death from cold in a heated flat. _John was in Sherlock's bedroom in an instant, grabbing the much fuller comforter from the bed. He vainly hoped that by the time he returned the man would be much warmer. He tucked the thick duvet around his friend and gently reached out to touch his neck. Sherlock was still cold. Too cold.__

__The kettle whistled._ _

__John erected himself from the crouching position and trotted into the kitchen. One bag of tea, massive amounts of sugar, and steaming hot water. It would have to do._ _

__“Sherlock, do you think you can manage to drink some tea?”_ _

__He gently placed the cup next to his friend. “Sherlock?” He touch his face. It was marginally warmer, but still not nearly warm enough. “Don’t fall asleep, come on... wake up...” He gently patted his chilly even sharper looking cheeks. Sherlock’s eyelids blinked heavily. His body wasn’t shivering anymore, but John knew that he should be at the temperature his skin currently held._ _

___Fuck. _“Sherlock. I want you to tell me about your last case. Can you do that?”__ _ _

____“I was...” he was slurring. “I was... my last case?”_ _ _ _

____“Yes, or lyrics to your favorite song, or name me all the types of tobacco ash, anything.” John listened as Sherlock started rambling off a mix of song lyrics, case details, and tobacco ash. He encouraged the rambling, _Yes, and what happened then? Indian cigars, you say? _and stripped down behind him from pyjamas to just wooly socks and a pair of red briefs. He lifted up the covers and crawled in behind his friend, pressing his chest firmly against the other man’s icy back. It almost made John wince in pain just to feel it. He couldn’t imagine living in skin that cold.___ _ _ _

______John reached his palm around Sherlock’s chest and rubbed at his sternum in deep quick strokes._ _ _ _ _ _

______“What are you doing, John?” His slurring friend asked, head lolling on the floor trying to turn and look at him._ _ _ _ _ _

______“I am trying to heat up your body and keep your blood moving.” _Why what are you doing? What’s that? Just nearly killing yourself? Sounds like fun, ya’ git. _____ _ _ _ _

________“I can feel you.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“That’s good. Your skin is still sensitive to touch and heat. Those are good things, Sherlock.” John rather hated the sounds of his clinical voice just then._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Sherlock leaned back against him, seeking the warm flesh of John Watson. “You feel good.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________John had read about victims of hypothermia being confused and not making sense, but hearing those words come from that man, was beyond belief. John would bet money Sherlock had never said those words in that order to another human being before. “Yes. I am much warmer than you. I suppose I would feel good.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Sherlock sighed and dreamily said, “You have such nice muscles.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________The hand that was massaging Sherlock’s chest stopped abruptly at the admission. He wasn’t sure what to say to his naked flatmate that he was currently spooning in front of the fireplace. He slowly started moving his hand against his heart again. John wasn’t sure if he should encourage his friend to talk anymore in this state, but knew he had to keep him awake. “Thank you. Or actually thank the military, I suppose.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________They laid like that for nearly an hour, John trying to keep Sherlock warm and awake. He asked him simple questions and riddles and breathed hot hair onto his neck and shoulders. The quaking and shivering returned and receded. It was a good sign. He was heating back up enough that his body could recognize the cold, then heated even more that he didn’t need to shiver. Soon after that, Sherlock bent his stiff, legs up and wiggled his feet into the top of John’s woolen socks, searching out heat. John leaned down and secured them over his frozen ankles, their feet now sharing the stretchy material together. John wiggled his toes against Sherlock, encouraging more heat to them._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Soon, Sherlock joined, him. Their feet rubbing against one another’s. Somewhere in the back of John’s mind, a smile formed. It had been a long time since he played footsie with anyone. A long forgotten sensation twisted his abdomen at the thought, and a pulse of heat ran down John’s body. _Sherlock _He abruptly stopped moving his feet then. _No, he is your patient. He is your flatmate. He is a HE, for god’s sake. _John shook himself mentally. He refocused on the patient part of Sherlock, and less on the feel of his skin pressing against his body._____ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Their feet were still there, warming together, but not moving now, and John had stopped rubbing at what was now probably very raw skin on Sherlock’s chest. They just laid there. Sherlock absorbing John’s heat. John holding Sherlock delicately._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“Thank you, John.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________John smiled, knowing that Sherlock didn’t often thank people. “Please, call me doctor.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________He snorted out appreciatively at his friend’s joke, lightening the mood. He shifted his body to look at John. He was on his back, and John had propped his head up on a bent arm. They couldn’t have looked more like lovers in that moment, they both knew it, yet neither man moved._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________John’s eyes scanned over Sherlock. He was so close he barely had to speak at all, he could have probably just thought in his friends direction and he would have heard. John settled on an airy, soft sort of whisper. “So what could you have possibly been thinking about? How is it you could have just ignored freezing half to death?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________He was also quiet when he spoke. “I was writing a song in my mind. I must have gotten lost somewhere in the notes.” John didn’t say anything. Sherlock sometimes seemed to speak in poetry, and John was always mesmerized when the cold, logical detective turned artistic and soft. It was like seeing the back of the Mona Lisa. John couldn’t help himself but to drink in the sight of his enigmatic friend. Sherlock turned his head as much as he could as he continued, “I could feel the cold, I recognized it, but pushed it away. I just retreated into my mind.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________John wished he could rebuke him for it, but how could anyone tell a genius to be ordinary? “Try to only retreat into your mind when the windows are shut, then. Okay?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Sherlock smiled and responded all tea-and-honey, “Yes, doctor.” Sherlock patted John’s hand. He meant for it to be doting and light hearted, but it made John realize how closely he was still holding him. He awkwardly lifted his hand back, apologetic, but Sherlock grabbed him by the wrist, his speed and strength returning suddenly. He put his hand back on the center of his chest and turned so he was facing the fire yet again, pulling John so he was tucked against the taller man tightly, just as before. John imagined that he didn’t want to face him just yet. Not like this._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“I was worried about you, Sherlock.” John encouraged honestly, pressing him into a gentle hug. He knew it was what Sherlock needed, a little bit of compassion, a lot of attention. John had dealt with enough patients to know when they weren’t in need of medical attention, but felt needy for attention._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Sherlock didn’t respond._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“You could have died if you’d been left there any longer.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Again Sherlock twisted his body so his back was on the floor. He wanted to watch John answer his next question. “What would you have done?” He asked softly, a vulnerability sneaking through that rarely showed._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“If- if you died?” John turned down his mouth and shrugged for a second, “Dunno... probably would have taken the better bedroom for a start.” Sherlock smiled broadly. “Found a roommate who wasn’t completely insane.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“Starting to second guess saving me?” Sherlock said, looking down at John’s hand._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________John noticed that he at some point had begun idly, lovingly petting Sherlock’s chest hair. He blushed furiously and quietly responded, “Not in the least.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it! :D


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